By The River: Skeeter (1)

Tapping the snow off his sneakers, Dane entered the small-town café in Grand River. He kicked the slush away, the rhythmic thud-thud echoing through the quiet. He scanned the room. Silence occupied the empty tables. That was no surprise for a Thursday night when the river mist turned to ice. He wiped his soles against the grit of the welcome mat, his gaze drifting over the chipped linoleum toward the glass case of mixed pastries and the heavy, vintage cash register.

No sign of Doc Henderson. Dane squared his shoulders. He would sit here until the man walked through the door.

“Can I help ya, sugar?” A woman in a hairnet materialized from the kitchen. “You look downright froze to death.” She propped herself behind the register, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

“Sure.” Dane marched toward the display. His wallet felt light, too light, but a seat required a purchase. If he pretended to nibble on a pastry, he could stay out of the snow while he called Doc. They’d agreed on eight o’clock, but he knew the doctor lived a town over. Perhaps the weather was causing him trouble. Dane’s eyes flicked to a clock hanging near a ‘fresh coffee’ sign. It was already fifteen minutes past the meeting time.

“Mighty bitter out there.” The woman shuffled toward a blackened industrial coffee urn. “How ’bout a coffee on the house? I’m dumpin’ the pot at nine anyway. That-there is closing time.”

He could tell she made a point of telling him the closing time.

“Thanks.” Dane spotted a small plate in the case labeled peach cobbler. “I’ll take a piece of cobbler too.”

“Good choice.” The woman set a foam cup on the counter and went for the dessert. “Ginger made it, and it’s the best in town.”

“I know you’re closing soon, but I’m waiting for someone. Do you mind if I sit?”

“Sit fer a spell. Ya look new to Grand River.” She rang him up, and Dane gave her his money before he picked up the plate and the cup. “Who ya waitin’ fer?”

“I don’t know if you know him.” Dane paused. “Doctor Henderson?”

The woman picked up a fork and paused. She stood there so long that Dane wondered if she was having a stroke.

“Are you alright?”

“Doc passed two days back, honey.” She sniffled, and the fork was dangling between them. Her eyes filled with more moisture, enough that he wanted to apologize. “Heart just quit on him. Whole county’s been grievin’.”

“I didn’t know.” The news slapped the air right out of Dane’s lungs. Dead? What the hell was he going to do now?

“Maybe ya should sit.” The lady gestured to a table. “Can I get ya anythin’ else?”

“No. I’m fine.” It was a lie. He wasn’t fine.

Dane sat with his coffee and the cobbler, tossing his overnight bag to the floor. Staring at the peaches, he tried to figure out what to do now. Traveling here to see the Doc was his last plan for saving his house. Suddenly, all his problems felt insurmountable. What he needed was money, and fast. Unfortunately, he wasn’t a criminal. Short of knocking off a liquor store, he had no idea how to fix his life so that the bank didn’t take his home.

The door chimed, signaling a new customer, but Dane didn’t bother to lift his head. He was too upset to care who was ordering muffins.

“Hey, Skeeter,” the woman called out.

The name was enough to make Dane look up. Skeeter? He’d never heard a name like that in the city.

A scruffy, muscular man limped up to the glass case. He was a little older than Dane, at least that was what he could figure out. Dane was only twenty-two, and this guy looked to be twenty-five or so, but he was undeniably handsome. He was tall, with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and thighs that looked capable of crushing stone.

The man pushed back a thick, shaggy brown mullet with his right hand. Dane wrinkled his nose at the haircut, but he couldn’t stop appreciating the ass on this stranger. The guy held his left arm close to his body, protected by a black brace that ran from his fingers to his elbow.

Dane watched, mesmerized, as the man shuffled toward the register. He wasn’t a polished model or a movie star, but there was something about the way his blue jeans clung to his rounded backside that Dane couldn’t help but drool over.

“Evenin’, Sharon.” His voice was deep, gravelly, and dripping with a thick, syrupy Southern drawl. “Ya got a scrap of that cobbler left?” The tone tugged at something deep in Dane’s gut. “I’m havin’ a hell of a day, ma’am.”

Join the club, Dane grumbled silently.

As the stranger told the cashier what he wanted, he set two paper bags on the counter. Once again, Dane’s eyes raked over the bulky coat. He wondered if that was layers of fabric or actual muscle. He bet that was the kind of muscle that begged to be touched.

Dane gave himself a mental shake.

He had no business ogling some random country boy in the small town of Grand River. Hook-ups, dating, sex, all those things were the last thing he had time for in his life. Dane had real problems, and even if this guy had broad shoulders and a nice ass, it didn’t mean anything. The man was probably straight, and Dane wasn’t into unshaven rednecks with their jeans tucked into their giant work boots. Plus, Dane now had to figure out how to get home. When he returned to the city, he had to devise a way to pay the back mortgage before the bank foreclosed.

“Have a good night.” Skeeter turned to leave, and Dane lifted his gaze.

Their eyes met. A jolt of restless desire hit him, sparks sizzling in the quiet air. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but as he looked at Skeeter, something inside him roared to life.

Dark, soulful hazel eyes locked onto Dane. The world outside, the snow, the dead doctor, the failing mortgage, all of it vanished. Time stretched thin. They looked at each other for way longer than was appropriate in any situation, but Dane couldn’t break eye contact.

The feelings were like they’d been together before. Maybe they’d met in a past life, since Dane was sure he’d never seen this guy in the city. Skeeter wasn’t polished or groomed, but his face was still attractive with his beard scruff and intelligent hazel eyes. This man looked honest, solid, and kind. The sense of dependability about him was hotter than sizzling good looks and a huge dick.

As if at the very same time, they both realized they’d been staring, they both looked away. Dane dropped his eyes to his coffee. Skeeter fumbled with his paper bags, grabbed the plastic bag off the counter, and hurried out the exit.

The bell chimed.

Dane exhaled slowly.

“Ya want anythin’ else?” the employee asked. That sentence felt like code for ‘get out.’ She probably didn’t want to be rude since she was the person who’d told him Doc was dead.

“I’m good.” Dane stood, grabbed his small bag, and checked his phone. The café closed in ten minutes. He should leave. He hated to keep a worker late at any business. Besides, he knew Doc wasn’t coming. “Thanks.”

“Have a good night.” Sharon paused. “And I’m real sorry ’bout Doc. We all loved him.”

“Yeah.” Dane walked out of the exit and then stopped. Now what?

Pulling his leather jacket closer around his body, he pushed out all thoughts of the dead doctor. He couldn’t think about that right now. Right now, he had to find a ride back to the bus station. Then he had to buy a ticket and leave. It was late, so he’d probably sleep at the bus station.

Standing in the small cove in front of the glass doors to the café, Dane looped his overnight bag over his shoulder. Then he heard it. He tipped his head and listened.

“Ya look like a drunk raccoon that fell in a septic tank, Skeeter.” The man’s voice was gruff. “When are ya gonna get over yerself and admit yer a liar.”

Dane peeked around the brick corner.

The man named Skeeter was crawling around the sidewalk in the snow. One of his paper bags had ripped open at the bottom. The cans, drinks, and boxes were scattered on the cement. The stranger wasn’t helping to pick up the items as Skeeter gathered the food with his one good arm. The other man talked while the man struggled on his knees.

“Ain’t a soul in this town believes that city-boyfriend tale ya been spinnin’,” the stranger sneered. “Ya lie like a smooth-talkin’ lawyer in divorce court.”

“I ain’t know what yer talkin’ ’bout, Mule,” Skeeter caught a water bottle and shoved the item into his coat pocket.

“Just admit ya made up this here fella.” Mule, as he was named, demanded. “What’s his name again? Can ya even remember?”

“He ain’t made up.” Skeeter snatched a jug of orange juice before the container rolled into the snow that gathered on the pavement. “His name is DJ, and he lives in the city, and he’s—” Skeeter’s hand gripped a box of crackers. “He’s tall like me, and he’s cute with short black hair and a lot of tattoos, and his eyebrow is pierced, and so is his lip and left ear.”

As the man on the ground word vomited, Dane leaned back against the glass door in the cove. Skeeter was describing him precisely. It appeared Skeeter was lying about having a boyfriend, and in a panic, he was using Dane for a hasty description. There was something about this that Dane hated, and it wasn’t Skeeter’s lying. This jerk, Mule, was calling Skeeter out while the poor guy crawled around in the snow.

That was low.

A can of soup rolled down the sidewalk. Dane crouched and picked up the lost grocery item.

“And he has this sexy black leather jacket,” Skeeter was still talking in a rush. “And he looks hot in his black jeans, and his black and white tennis shoes remind me of old fifties movies.”

Dane wiped off the can and grinned down at his shoes. He supposed they would work in the movie Grease.

“And know what?” Skeeter hadn’t stopped talking yet. “He’s sexy and smart and fun, and—ya wanna know the best thing ’bout him?”

Dane peeked around the brick again as the man got off his knees and faced the other guy. He crushed a loaf of bread into the other paper bag.

“He’s nice,” Skeeter snapped, his voice cracking with a desperate sort of pride. “He treats me right, which is a damn sight better’n what yer doin’ right now.”

Dane brushed the light snow from his leather jacket. Maybe he was about to do this because he liked how Skeeter described him. That was the most loyal thing anyone had ever said about him, and they’d never even met.

Mule was an ass.

Straightening his spine, Dane trotted out of the cove and made a beeline for the two men on the street. A little voice asked him what he was doing, but Dane wasn’t in the mood to listen to it. He was in the mood to get Mule to shut the hell up.

“Do you need me, babe?” Dane stepped into the light from a nearby lamppost. A grin tugged at his lips. He extended the can of tomato soup like an olive branch, his heart hammering against his ribs as he waited for Skeeter to catch the lifeline.